HD 'Zombie Love'
by tigersilver
Summary: Exhausted, Overworked!Draco; Sympathetic!Harry; PWP. Also, AU, EWE.


Fandom: HP  
Pairing: H/D  
Rating: NC-17  
Warnings: Overworked!Draco; Sympathetic!Harry; also-smex. PWP, yes?  
Word Count: 1,600

HD 'Zombie Love'

"Annngh," Draco growled. He dropped his briefcase, his wand, his Muggle key ring and his expensive top-of-the-line over-robe and shucked his half-boots via a series of feeble hops. Staggered through the hall and into the kitchen and fetched up at the counter, reeling.

"Bad day?" his companion inquired, sympathy warm in his voice. He held out a glass of wine but Draco shook his head and stumbled to the hulking fridge instead. Wrenching it open, he rummaged, eyes fully closed and long length swaying, until his knowledgeable fingers found the familiar cold neck of a brown glass bottle.

He staggered back, kicking aimlessly at the heavy door and twisting the bottle top, still willfully blind. The safety seal cracked open, and Draco tipped the bottom in what might've been a vaguely polite salute and upended it without delay.

"Ahhhh," he sighed after two long swallows, and then nearly choked, as sighing and drinking did not mix. "Mmmm….ggh!"

"Watch it, love," Harry cautioned, and Draco shrugged, still glugging.

A dribble ran down his jaw, and he swiped it, levering open bloodshot grey eyes and regarding his live-in... something. What they were to one another had never been fully discussed—or decided.

"Nnnh?"

He raised his pale brows and the nearly empty bottle simultaneously, and Harry laughed, setting the unwanted wine glass down. He wiped his hands on a dishtowel just as Draco finished and yet still managed to catch the other man's elbow when he staggered forward, yawning to beat the band.

"Give me that, nit, before you drop it," Harry scolded, relieving Draco of the empty. "Come on, then. You said you wanted it, right?"

Draco grunted, nodding, and let himself be led, like a zombie—or a remarkably intact Inferi. Harry had his remaining clothes whisked away by Charm before they'd even made the bedroom door; seconds after, Draco was collapsing into it, face first, in an ungainly sprawl. He'd never looked so inelegant in all his twenty-eight years.

"Gungh?" he gurgled, and humped his arse up, wagging it feebly in Harry's direction. Pale half-moons loomed invitingly and Harry swallowed, salivating despite his best intentions. "Gngh?"

"You're sure, Draco?"

Harry paused, in the midst of stripping off his own clothes, and peered with no small concern at his flatmate (or whatever he was—who knew, really, what to call him, other than simply 'Draco'?)

"You're awfully whipped this evening. Marcus been flogging the senior staff again?"

"Mnhph!"

Draco impatiently wiggled his arse again, in lieu of answering, and Harry nodded reluctantly, setting his jaw. He clambered onto the bed, resettling a pillow under Draco's sagging hips, and Accio'd the lube.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming, but just a quickie, alright?" Harry stated firmly, slipping two oily fingers to the knuckle into Draco's bared hole and carefully twisting. "You need sleep more than a shagging, fool. Wish you'd listen, sometimes. You'd enjoy this more in the morning."

"Nnnn!" Draco showed more signs of life at that than at anything previous, turning his head about on the pillow it was buried in and glaring with one red-veined eye at Harry. He growled, or made a noise vaguely like it.

"Jus'ge'onwif'it'Pot'r!" he grumble-snarled, or something of the sort, in some sort of tongues. Sounded vaguely Swedish, or possiby Eskimo. Harry stifled a laugh and twisted in a third finger, rhythmically spreading and closing them all within the relaxed muscles of Draco's arsehole.

"Wanker," he muttered, fondness coursing through his veins like a fine brandy. "Silly sod. Pay attention."

"Mmmm," Draco murmured happily. "Mm'rr."

He was nearly comatose again, even so. Harry only knew his lover (or whatever—shag buddy, maybe?) was conscious by the telltale rise and fall of hips as he pushed his questing fingertips along to Draco's prostate, tickling it.

"Mnrff?" Draco mumbled, shivering a bit, and Harry took that noise as a sign of readiness.

"Alright, here goes nothing," he said, removing his fingers and slicking up his cock. He grasped it, pumping once or twice to spread the excess of lube down the shaft, and then squared up his knees and hips, aiming. "Coming through, Malfoy. Breathe, alright?"

The first press on Draco's puckered pink sphincter resulted in a slightly pained gasp from the blond on the bed, but then Harry's dick found the cushiony, spongy flesh on the other side, and he began a slow rock to budge himself forward. Angling his hips and hauling Draco's up gently to align him, Harry slid his cock in by agonizingly slow degrees, pausing often.

"Alright there, Draco?" he asked and, at the nearly invisible nod, he kept going, with utmost caution, till at last he was buried ball's deep. "Okay? Still?"

"Mm!"

There was a lengthy pause, during which Draco flopped a bit on his flat stomach, bunching himself caterpillar-style into a curvature better suited to taking a hearty battering.

"Mmm-hmmm," he mumbled, after a moment. "Mmmmm…"

"'Kay' then," Harry sighed philosophically. He liked it better when Draco was home on time from the office and still halfway coherent. "I'm moving."

Move he did, at first slowly and then picking up speed when Draco began a soft, nearly inaudible whinge.

"Yeah?" Harry gasped, immersing himself into the heat and warmth, the comfort and the fire. "Good. I like it, too, you bugger. Don't fall asleep on me. Not yet, anyway."

"Mmmnngh," Draco grunted again, and Harry saw that one eye was slitted open, at least part-way. Not completely gone, then. Draco's hair had drifted across his parted lips, though; he seemed to be mouthing a tendril, along with a corner of pillowcase. He was certainly drooling, something a normal Draco would never be caught dead doing, but Fridays during the height of the presentation season were a whole different matter from 'normal'.

Harry counted himself lucky Draco was even in the mood. Sometimes he had to Floo over to the office to retrieve him, passed out on his desktop, after the firm's security Wizard rang thru, and that was a drag.

"S'good, isn't it?" he asked, knowing he wouldn't receive an actual reply—not in intelligible English, at least. He wasn't going to be enlightened as to just how Marcus-the-Terminally-Mad, Draco's insanely caffeinated boss, had tortured all his subordinates today, either. That, and all the interoffice gossip and anything else of note, would be related tomorrow, over morning tea—which would likely be consumed at noon at the very earliest, judging by Draco's current lethargy.

"Mmmph! Pot-oof!"

Draco was arching up, finally, a boneless hand sliding slowly in the direction of his crotch.

"Mph!"

He was obviously struggling to reach it, the wanker, and Harry took pity, even as he ramped up the pace.

"I got it, git!" Harry gasped and noticed that Draco's cock was desperately hard, even as Draco himself was mostly unconscious and limp as a wet biscuit. "Leave off, idiot," he ordered, when he'd caught his breath again. "I'm on it."

"Nn."

He grasped the length of smooth skin sliding over what felt like a steel girder—Draco could get it up under even the most impossible of circumstances—and began rubbing and fondling, going faster and faster gradually, till his palm matched the gait of his thrusts.

Draco's supple form rolled with every surge forward, sagging back with every slithering pump over his cock, like a wake following a wave and receding, and Harry delighted in the motion, surveying the pale muscled back before him with affection. It wasn't such a bad thing to have his lover (yes, 'lover'; it'd been three years now, why not call a spade a spade?) pretty much apartments-to-let whilst shagging. Sure beat complaints about sexual mechanics or the grevious state of Harry's hair or yet more acid tattle about that infernal twat Marcus.

"Nnh! Nnnh!"

Draco was capable still of making noise, though. He made more of them—odd little whuffles and pained snorts; muffled gasps and gargling, gagging throaty sounds—and then returned finally to that low-pitched humming of his, elevated as Harry's hips and hand reached maximum velocity. When he came, it was with a strangled gasp, followed by an immediate full-body slump, as if someone had taken a sharp pin to him and all the trapped air had escaped in a rush.

"Hah!" Harry shouted a second later. "Dra—co!"

Came himself, which was fucking heaven, and most appreciated. Dawlish had been a bear with a sore paw all day; the Floo traffic had been beastly, and arriving home to a cold, dark flat a decided let-down. This was certainly an improvement: a warm bed, a satisfied, already snoring lover, and nothing left that had to be said or done or—Merlin forbid!—handled.

He, too, slumped forward, careful enough yet not to utterly crush his somnolent bedmate, and let himself fall into an untidy heap. Waved a very lax hand for an extremely cursory cleansing spell and closed his own eyes, at last. The candles sputtered out, leaving the room dim and peaceful.

"Stupid git," Harry murmured, shifting. "Should'a been more awake. That was a good'un."

Draco only rolled over in his sleep, scrabbling with long fingers for sheet and quilts—the ones he was lying atop of—and finding Harry's warm body instead. He sighed, smacking his lips, and curled himself all over and around Harry, elbowing him sharply and digging his pointy chin into Harry's unguarded shoulder in the process.

"Mmm," he murmured. "…'arry."

"Hey," Harry smiled and patted what he could reach from a bad angle, his arm bent all akimbo and what with Draco draped all over him like a bloody throw. "G'night, git. Get some sleep—you need it."

"Mmm," Draco nodded into Harry's nape, snuggling. Harry _felt _the smile. "'Night, love."

And that last was clear as a bell and in the Queen's vernacular, comprehensible even to a three-quarter's blissed out Potter. Harry's eyes, which had been nearly closed, almost to the state of being glued shut, popped open. Green stared wide and blinking at the matching hue of the bedroom curtains, not seeing a single detail of the geometric pattern. 'Love', huh?

Well, now.

That wasn't so shabby, really. Maybe there was something to be said for zombie love, after all.


End file.
